are
fat in this city, and so
are we
wobbling from
store to store,
swiping cards,
buying things
we don't need.
the pigeons never
fly south
or north, like we do,
they're
here for good,
centuries of them
in their
grey jackets,
hobbling on yellow claws.
they're everywhere
you look.
they live
where the rich
live,
the poor, every
neighborhood has pigeons,
on every statue,
on every ledge of every
building,
they adorn.
they know
they have it good here.
they hardly flinch
a feather
when you walk by them,
their beaks
gnawing on a bagel
just thrown.
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